Page 51 of Hidden Daughters

He raised his shoulders, then let them drop, defeated. ‘There has to be something to throw a light on this murder. Have you got anywhere with Edie’s background?’

‘It’s a bit of a dead duck really. There’s plenty to learn about her in the almost twenty years she’s lived in Ragmullin, but before that there’s barely anything.’

‘What about her husband?’

‘She was married for a few years. Fred Butler. He’s definitely dead. Car accident when the younger boy was a baby. That seems to be when she moved here. She had lived in Galway for a time. Not much to report really.’

‘What brought her to Ragmullin?’

‘Maybe she wanted a fresh start.’

‘Did Marge Woods have anything to offer?’

‘She’s more concerned with the latest fashion trend in false eyelashes. The salon owner is due back today from her holiday in France. I’ll go have a chat with her.’

‘Do, and please come back with something to keep the super off my back.’

She laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll do my best.’

32

CONNEMARA

The woman was wearing a blue half-zip fleece top and dirty denim jeans. Ripped black trainers with the laces undone. Long dark hair swept down over the arms that clutched her knees up to her face. Shoulders rocked, then stilled as the sobs diminished.

Lottie waited, unsure whether she should speak now or delay the inevitable. Maybe she could wait a few moments…

‘Who are you?’ she said, confirming her lack of patience.

‘Leave me alone.’

She’d been expecting a teenager, but the voice sounded older. Someone around her own age, perhaps. Or younger? It was hard to know.

‘What were you doing at the caravan?’ she asked, bending down, not wanting to be looming over the woman.

More sobs broke free, and she could see the woman’s hands turning white where they gripped her knees beneath the long hair.

‘What’s your name?’

Silence.

She edged forward. ‘I need to know your name so that we can talk.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

The woman lifted her head, hair still masking most of her features, but Lottie could make out dark-circled eyes; maybe brown irises, though they seemed black from crying.

A hiss issued from pale lips, ‘You really don’t want to be anywhere near me.’

‘Are you going to harm me?’

‘Harm you? No, I won’t. Can’t speak for whoever killed Mickey, though.’

‘Did you hurt him?’

‘Are you for real, woman?’ A high-pitched moan. ‘I tried towarnhim. To protect him. But the old fart wouldn’t listen to me. Now he’s dead and they’re after me, and I want you to leave me alone or you’ll be next.’

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